Hours Passed in Exile
by Darkly Tranquil
Summary: The puppet king cuts his strings in the name of freedom, only to find that no matter how far he runs, he can't escape from himself.


Hours Passed in Exile

A Dragon Age Origins fan fiction by Darkly Tranquil

Dragon Age and all associate IP are copyright of EA Bioware. I'm just playing with it. ;p

Title shamelessly pillaged from the song of the same name by Dark Tranquillity

* * *

This is a sequel/follow-up to my other story _**Misery's**_** Crown**. If you haven't read it, you should check it out first. You can find it on my profile page.

* * *

"Are you finished?" Anora asks tersely from underneath me as I regather my scattered thoughts in the wake of my orgasm. I take a shuddering breath as I look down at her scowling face and I am assailed with a profound feeling of loathing - loathing for the cold, heartless bitch I am forced to call my wife, and loathing for my own weakness and failure as a man and a king.

Although I am king in name, the truth of the matter is that most of the time I am little more than an ornament, wheeled out for state occasions to validate the power my shrew of a wife wields so ruthlessly and expertly. On some occasions, such as this night, I serve my other, less public role - that of stud bull. Despite our mutual loathing of one another, Anora insists that we couple several times a week in the hope of producing an heir.

In spite of the fact that we have persisted with our 'efforts' for nearly three years, she has not taken once. With each passing month and each failure, the chances of conceiving an heir diminish; she is now past thirty years old, and the taint in my blood is only getting stronger, further weakening my seed. Although I had once longed for a chance to be a father, to raise a child of my own with the love and nurturing that I myself was denied, I cannot bring myself to be unhappy that Anora and I have failed to conceive. While a baby would mean no longer having to bed Anora, it would also mean leaving my only child in the hands of a vicious, power hungry witch who would twist it's innocence into something terrible. If a child were born, I do not think that I could protect it from being tainted by the vile, poisonous ambition that emanates from it's mother. No, it's better this way.

"Well?" she demands. "Are you done?"

I roll off her and fall on my back on the grand, luxurious bed in the chamber we have set aside for our 'appointments'. The room where we meet is in the south wing of the palace, equidistant from my quarters in the east wing and her demesne in the west. It is sumptuously appointed, as one would expect for a room occupied by royalty, but it is empty of warmth, like a room at an inn; used and occupied, but impersonal and devoid of feeling or attachment. Neither of us is willing to perform the task in our own chambers, lest the taint of our spiteful joining tarnish our respective places of sanctuary. So we meet here, on 'neutral ground' as it were, to do our 'duty' and then we return to our separate lives, nurturing our contempt and disdain for one another, before returning a few nights hence to do it over again.

Anora rises from the bed and immediate grabs an Orlesian silk robe to wrap around herself. "At least it was mercifully brief on this occasion," she mutters as she ties the sash around her waist.

"Wow, you really know how to flatter a guy," I say. The words escape my mouth before I even realise, but I cannot bring myself to regret it; needling my wife is one of the few small pleasures in my otherwise pitiful life. I glance over at Anora to gauge her reaction. True to form, she throws me a look of pure, withering disgust.

"I am not here to soothe your fragile ego," she spits bitterly. "Were it up to me, I would never allow you to touch me." Without another word, she spins on her heel and storms out of the chamber, her robe flapping about her. I lie in the plush bed for a few more minutes, before the scent of Anora and the self-loathing that she inspires drives me from it.

* * *

I walk into my chambers and head straight over to the heavy velvet curtains that block my view of Fort Drakon and throw them open so that I might once again see the place where all my hopes and dreams came crashing down and I was irrevocably thrust into this nightmarish sham of an existence.

The night is clear and cold, and the moonlight reflects brightly off the tapering tower that looms over the city. It exists as a constant reminder to all, but to me in particular, of Ferelden's victory and the price of that victory.  
Everyone, from Gwaren to Weisshaupt, knows that Fort Drakon was the place the Fifth Blight was ended by the courage and sacrifice of a single woman. It is impossible to walk through Denerim without ones eyes being drawn to that tower and recalling what took place there. Even those who were not there for the battle, or who had never been to Denerim prior to that fateful confrontation, can feel the lingering touch of ancient magic that now pervades that place.

Since the death of the Archdaemon, the tower has been sealed off; the halls closed and the staircases bricked up to prevent anyone going up there. According to the magi, the Veil was rent terribly during that final battle, and despite their best efforts, it remains dangerously thin. For the safety of all, they recommended that all access to the top of the tower be forbidden. For me, the tower is a sacred place, the place where the woman I loved more than life itself died for me. It is fitting then, that it should be barred to all, for there are none who are worthy to walk in her footsteps, least of all me.

I sigh dejectedly as the old pain surges to the fore, seizing my chest in it's painful grasp. I am assailed by memories of what was, and what was denied me by the cruel vicissitudes of fate and duty. The memory of Elissa, her beautiful face, with her dancing green eyes and bouncing chestnut curls rushes into my mind. I can still recall our last night together like it was yesterday. The night before the Landsmeet, we lay in each others arms, knowing that it would most likely be for the last time before duty tore us apart. We made love slowly, savoring every moment, knowing that these memories would have to last us a lifetime. I remember every touch, every caress, every soft sigh and gasp of pleasure in perfect, exquisite, excruciating detail.

These memories are the only thing that allows me to 'perform my duties' with Anora, and every time I feel sick with guilt that I must use them simply to function. My heart seizes as the searing pain of loss, grief, and guilt assails me once again. It may have been four years since my love departed, but the pain remains as fresh as did then, only now it is laced with the shame of knowing that I have squandered the gift she gave me.

As I stand at the window, taking in the moonlight bathed city I rule in name only, I am struck by a powerful realisation - I can't do this anymore. I can't live this pathetic sham of an existence. I can't keep pretending to try to fill the shoes of a brother who never acknowledged me and a father who never wanted me. I should never have allowed Eamon to convince me that my blood would be enough to make me a King. The fact that I have been such an abject failure as king is all the proof I need to convince me that it should have been me up on the tower striking the final blow, it should have my life that paid for Ferelden's future.

I look up towards the top of the tower, the place where my love fell so that I might live. "Elissa," I murmur her name as I always have; like a prayer. "I know you gave everything for me, so that I might live. But this... Whatever this is... I'm not living, I am just not dying. I can't do this. I can't live like this. Please forgive me." With that thought, I realize that my decision is made. To stay would be to continue to sully her memory, and I cannot abide that thought a moment longer.

Before I even truly realize that I am doing it, I begin to strap myself into the old, battered splint mail armour that I wore all those years ago when the Blight began. I initially kept it as a momento of happier times, but more recently I have used to it to slip out of the palace and blend in with the common folk of Denerim when the bitterness and vitriol that pervades the palace becomes too much for me to endure. With luck, I will be able to slip out the way I normally do; the guards know of my outings, and usually overlook them, since I always return later. By the time they realize that I am not coming back, I should be miles away.

* * *

Nearly a week has passed since I absconded from the Royal Palace, but there has been no sign of any pursuit, and no news that the King has disappeared. No doubt Anora is trying to keep the fact that I have fled firmly under wraps for as long as possible. I wonder how much effort she will put into finding me. How long will she persist in searching before having me declared dead and claiming the throne in her own right? She will end up getting what she wanted all along, but I cannot bring myself to care; the relief of being free of her spiteful influence is such a profound relief.

I make my way through the streets of Highever to the central square, where the Grey Warden monument is. The monument is one of the few concessions I managed to extract from Anora before she gave up all pretense of caring what I thought.

The statue is carved from a single block of granite into the shape of a rearing griffon, a representation of the Warden's heraldic symbol given physical form. As always, I am struck by how amazingly lifelike it looks, the attention to detail on it's muscles and feathers giving the impression of a real griffon frozen in time; it embodies the power, courage, and grace of Grey Wardens I knew. On the pedestal beneath the statue are the inscribed names of all the Grey Wardens who gave their lives for Ferelden, but there are two names I seek out. Duncan - Warden Commander. Elissa Cousland - Blight Queller.

"Hey, Lis," I murmur, so that anyone passing by cannot overhear my most private, heartfelt thoughts. "I thought I should come by and see you and Duncan before I go. Once I leave, I probably won't be able to come back, so this is my last chance to visit. I hope you can understand why I have to do this. You sacrificed yourself so I could live, but what I have been doing - being 'king', it's not living. I have to go or your sacrifice was for nothing. I won't allow your death to have been in vain."

I pause for a moment to rein in my emotions, lest they spill out of control, before I turn to address the man who was more a father to me than my own ever was. "Duncan, I hope I haven't disappointed you," I say softly. "You were the only person who ever cared what I wanted, so I think you would understand why I'm doing this..." I trail off then, there are no more words to be said.

I remain standing in silent contemplation before the stone griffon for some time, reading the names of the fallen and trying to recall their faces, until I finally begin to feel conspicuous. In the time I have been standing there, no-one else has stopped to reflect on the sacrifice of the Grey Wardens, and my lingering presence is bound to be noticed sooner or later. I know I need to leave, but the desire to cling to the last tangible connection to the past is powerful one.

"Goodbye, my love," I whisper. "My heart is always with you."

With that, I turn from the monument to the memory of two people I loved best in the world, and head for dock. There is a ship bound for Kirkwall leaving on the midday tide, and I intend to be on it. There is nothing left for me in Ferelden.

* * *

It's been a year since I slipped out of Denerim Palace for the last time and fled the sham that was my life. Since then I have wandered widely through the Free Marches, Nevarra, and Antiva, making my way as a sword for hire. It's not how I thought I would be spending my life, but it's better than the alternative. Out on the road I am free of expectations and burdens of name and lineage.

These days I go by the name 'Alec' - it's enough like my real name that I don't forget to respond to it too often. I was never good at pretending to be someone other than who I am, but necessity forced me to adopt a new identity. I grew my hair out and I sport a beard most of time now, since I don't get as many opportunities to shave as I might like. If people ask, I claim to be a Blight refugee from Redcliffe, which I suppose is not far from the truth. When I need coin, I sell my skills guarding trade caravans that travel to and fro between the major cities of central Thedas.

It is one of these trade caravans that has brought me to Antiva City, a noisy, crowded, smelly cesspit filled with violence, intrigue, and people who remind me far too much of Zevran. Of the many cities that I have had the opportunity to visit in my travels, it is not among my favorites, but I go where the work takes me.

Having arrived in the city late in the afternoon, and knowing what Antiva City is like after dark, I am keen to find lodging for the night. I make my way to an inn I have stayed at a couple of times and step inside. The benches and tables that dominate the common room are crowded with people drinking and carousing, and the air is heavy with the smoke of Rivaini tobacco. The room buzzes with the incomprehensible cacophony of innumerable voices all speaking at once in a multitude of languages as I make my way over to the bar to seek lodging for the night.

The innkeeper nods to me as I approach. Having stayed here several times before, he knows I'm a Ferelden, so when he speaks, it's in the common tongue, rather than Antivan, which I am terrible at. "Greetings, friend. After a room?"

I nod. "If you have one."

"We're a bit full up, but I've got a loft above the stable if that's not beneath you."

I can't help but laugh. It seems I have truly come full circle; from a stable to a palace and back to a stable again. "It's fine," I reply. "I grew up in a stable. It will be like going home."

"Good. I'd not want to turn you away. You want a meal?" he asks.

"Please. I'll have an ale, too."

He pours the ale and hands it to me. "Take a seat and I will bring your meal shortly."

I thank him and move across the room to a vacant seat at one of the benches that run along the sides of the room. As I sit enjoying my ale, I catch voices speaking behind me, and I realise they are speaking Ferelden.

"You heard the news from home?" one voice asks in a conversational tone.

"What news is that?" another voice says.

I'm in the middle taking a sip of ale when the first man replies.

"Queen Anora has given birth to a son."

I choke on my ale as my throat constricts in shock and I start spluttering.

"How'd she manage that?" one of the men behind me says. "Didn't the Bastard King vanish?"

"Supposedly, she fell pregnant just before he disappeared. They say the baby is the spitting image of a Theirin, so the nobles believe it."

Finally clearing my throat, I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. Could it be true? Could Anora have gotten pregnant that last miserable night we were together? I suppose it was possible. Maker have mercy, I have a child and I didn't even know...

"So," one of the voices behind me says,"What's the name of this new Prince of Ferelden?"

"Prince Loghain Maric Theirin," another replies.

A veil of red descends across my vision as pure, unbridled rage suffuses every fibre of my being. My fists clench and I squeeze my eyes shut to deny the tears that are moments from bursting forth. Maker, what kind of cruel mockery is this? I have a son, and he is named after the man I despised above all others. What sin have I committee for you to torment with such cruel irony? That I should leave my sham of a marriage and my empty crown to seek out some sort of life for myself, only to discover that I am the father when it is too late for me to know my son.

As powerful as the urge to go to him is, I know full well that Anora would never allow me to return. I have no doubt that if I reappeared she would find a way to have me killed now that she has her heir. I have served my purpose after all, it seems. The Theirin name will go on, but it will be carried by the black heart of a MacTir.

No, as much as it pains me to admit it, there can be no going back. I will never get a chance to know my son, and he will never have the chance to know his father. It will be just as it was for me; my son will be without a father, always wondering if he was wanted and if I cared about him. Maker, I have repeated the mistakes of my own father. The tears I have been trying told hold back begin to fall openly down my face as the grief of what I have lost begins to truly hit me; I have lost the woman I loved and all my hopes for a future with her, and now I have lost the chance to be a father to the only child I will ever have.

As the weight of the true, terrible reality of my failure begins to descend upon me, the innkeeper arrives with my meal. He places the plate of seafood chowder and crusty bread in front of me. "You want anything else?" he asks.

"Brandy," I croak, still too shocked to speak properly. "Bring the bottle."

He gives me a long look, then heads to the bar. Moments later, he returns bearing a green glass bottle and a round brandy glass. He places them in front of me without comment and then moves away to attend to another customer. Pulling the cork from the bottle, I pour a generous amount of the rich Antivan spirit into the glass in front of me. I pick it up, admiring the rich honey colour of the liquor as I swirl it around in front of me, then I raise it in a toast.

"To my son," I whisper, and drain the glass. The first of many.


End file.
